After inviting me to join him at one of those East Side Milwaukee taverns that notoriously caters to those who like to imbibe in excess — an offer that I subsequently decline respectfully, Mike shows up in my waiting room later that same day. Like a handful of “special” clients, he maintains a walk-in status at the clinic and is not expected to make appointments. On the surface, he has a menacing appearance: a pockmarked face and the black-brown eyes of a shark. He is known throughout the city for his volcanic emotional outbursts. Despite those things, I have grown accustomed to him, even though I still feel my stomach churn a little each time I see him. Turning him away is out of the question because I’m the only one in the clinic he’ll talk to. He usually needs to talk about the “little bearded Taliban men” and their “robe-covered women in black” who have been the phantoms in his daily life since his return to Milwaukee from Afghanistan in 2020. Several years ago when I met Mike at the clinic for the first time, he had nervously explained to me that he had been wounded in Afghanistan. Shrapnel wounds to his legs had caused his right leg to turn inward, and the left one to point outward, thus making forward movement difficult. Before I met him, he had caught my attention on more than one occasion as he walked down the sidewalks in the area around the clinic. He always reminded me of some poor creature impaled by an invisible hook, a wretched man who, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, was doomed forever to a mangled appearance. In his case, one that would attract the attention of other pedestrians and motorists, the jibes and occasional ridicule of street punks, and the unlimited fantasies of children. And yet, like the tragic Hunchback of Notre Dame, there was an inner goodness, a special intelligence to this man that I recognized during the first session in my office. His outward appearance, monster gait and all, I have concluded, is a mask, a rough bark that hides what’s beautiful inside. He is much like the paintings of the late artist Alfred Sessler, whose lithographs were peppered with the twisted, supernatural trees of gothic forests, suggestive of weather-beaten human faces, all of those things ravaged and beaten by the forces of Nature. Perhaps it is this very awareness on my part that sustains me each time I zero in on Mike’s mash-potato psyche. “Mike,” I say sternly, betraying my sympathy for this most difficult of alcoholic clients, “Mike, how about telling me what made you slip again after eight months of sobriety?” “I can’t do it anymore, Gary. Megan is making me feel like she’s going to leave me. She bitches about me talking about the war. She’s tired of all of my nightmares and flashbacks. She won’t even be seen with me outside of the house unless it’s at night. I…I hate myself for boozing again, Gary,” he says, eyeing me fixedly. “What nightmares have you had lately, Mike?” I ask. And he tells me about the young man (maybe boy) whom he machine-gunned from his copter as the figure below walked alone across a rocky hill. Mike adds that he could see the man’s entrails fly out of his body as he was slammed against the rocky bluff below as Mike’s helicopter made a close flyover. “I actually saw that Afghani sitting across the counter in the coffee shop at the drugstore the other day when I sat down to have lunch. It … it was him, Gary, I know it. He was even wearing Taliban-style garb, and he looked directly at me, dead-serious like, but then gave me a smile, a big, beautiful smile, Gary — one that tore my heart out!” I notice Mike’s face turning beet-red now, and I know that his eyes will again burst into tears. Behind the grimace of emotional pain on his face, I spot the goodness in his heart. Even when he picks up a potted plant and smashes it against the wall on the other side of my office, I see it. There’s no way he can really hide it from me. Mike stays in my office for most of the afternoon until the pain subsides. We talk about the post-traumatic stress disorder he has suffered from for years now, his relationship with Megan and, outside of his AA sponsor, his lack of true friends. He wonders if we could just be friends one day when therapy ends. “Mike, you know that our relationship is a very special one, a very close one, but not that of just friends. “What I mean to say is, if I should someday bump into you, would you say hello and have a cup of coffee with me?” I want to open up and tell Mike about what I see in him but I recognize, at the same time, my own fear of having such a friend, of the potential burden of a friendship like his. Nevertheless, I tell him that, should we meet after therapy ends, a cup of coffee wouldn’t be declined. “Gary, I’ve decided to not make anymore appointments with you,” Mike says, looking at my eyes to catch my reaction. “You see, I’ve got to make it on my own now, with just my friends,” he adds with a wink. “Alright,” I answer, after a slight pause. “The timing may not be right, Mike, but if that’s your decision, you have the right to make whatever one you want.” We shake hands and walk to the waiting room. “I hope Megan’s at home waiting for me, “ Mike says with a nervous smile as he exits the clinic. Two weeks later and after no further contact with or visits by Mike to my office, my wife and I spend a while sitting out on our screened porch. The early fall air is refreshing; the sky is clear and full of stars. I feel at peace inside as we sit with our arms around each other, letting our thoughts drift. Suddenly, we notice some children from the neighborhood making their way home down our cul-de-sac and the alley along the side of our house. They are talking in an animated way, but we cannot make out their words. They are also looking back down toward the entrance to the cul-de-sac. In the darkness, a large figure of a man moves slowly to the corner, and looks down our street. His massive hulk moves with difficulty. As he comes halfway up the block, Sarah whispers, “ Look at the way that man walks! My God, who is he!” In the shelter afforded by the darkness there on our porch, I turn to her and, with my index finger to my lips, I give her my answer. We then watch in silence as the man with the recognizable gait passes in front of our house and out of sight down the alley. I wrestle with the notion of whether or not Mike again is a captive of his imaginary visions of the Taliban ghost that has been haunting him. Or if it has been the infernal taunting of children that has aggravated him? Or if he was looking for me in what could be his last bid for the friendship that he perhaps hopes to have with me? The following day Megan calls me to ask whether I’ve seen him. I swallow hard and say no. She adds that he’s been missing for a few days when she’s visited his apartment, and has no leads as to his whereabouts. She’s checked Curly’s Bar and she’s driven through areas of town he goes to when he’s binging. “I’ll let you know if he shows up here, Megan.” “Please do, Gary. Oh God, I hope he’s alright!” “Don’t worry, Megan. Mike’s done this two or three times before. He’s a big boy, and he’s learned how to navigate there on his own.” “Thanks.” “I’ll be in touch, Megan.” One, two, three days pass and no sign of Mike at the clinic. Out of a sense of therapeutic responsibility, I decide that I’ll do something I’ve never dreamed of doing before. That evening, after dinner, I tell Sarah about my relationship with Mike and that I believe that it’s my duty to help find him. She runs her hand through her long brown hair, while supporting her head with her other arm on the sofa. Her slender body doesn’t move, except for a nod of her head that signifies to me that she understands. I advise her not to wait up, and I kiss her goodnight, and am surprised by her suddenly grabbing me and pulling me back to her for one of her passionate kisses. By eight thirty, I’m walking into Curly’s. No sign of Mike, but I decide to sit at the bar which is populated by about a dozen or so men and women in their forties and fifties, all of whom appear to have had long-term intimate relationships with the beer mugs in front of them. I feel strange, like some kind of a rare frog in a fish pond. I order a mug of Miller Premium Draft which I later sip slowly, stalling for time. I feel a tap on my shoulder and I swivel around on the bar stool, expecting to see him. Instead, I am face to face with an elderly man who, I would guess, has slugged down mugs all evening, at least. He extends his hand and smiles, like an old friend. I wonder what the hell he’s thinking? What he wants? He just smiles and then, in a speech too slurred to be intelligible to me, expresses some kind of sentiment. I nod and smile back, and give him a wave as I swirl back around to face the bar. I sense him still standing there, obviously not about to leave. “Sammy, it’s time to go home now,” the bartender shouts at the man as soon as he notices him standing behind me. When the man doesn’t move, the bartender makes a gesture like he’s going to come around and personally escort him out of the bar. The man miraculously connects with what the bartender is threatening, and he turns on his heels and manages somehow, at a snail’s pace, to shuffle out of the bar. “ I owe you one,” I say to the bartender who then tells me he’s the owner of the bar, and that, coincidentally, he’s known Sammy ever since. “Oh, you must be Curly?” “Sorry, Dave’s the name. I bought out Curly back in ’98. Curly was just his nickname; he was really bald as a newborn babe. But he was the guy who brought this place up to where it is now. I owe a lot to him,” he said, proudly rapping on the bar counter. “You’re new in here, aren’t you?” “Yeah, name’s Gary,” I say extending my hand. “You must know Mike, Mike LaFond?” “God, yes, but I haven’t seen him for a couple of months or so.” “Any clue as to where else he might be? His wife’s looking for him. She’s pretty panicky by now.” “You some kind of private investigator or something?” “No, we’re friends, that’s all.” “Come to think of it, Gary, this used to be his regular night here. Maybe if you hang around a bit, you might get lucky. Another beer, Jefe?" “Yeah, sure. Might as well quench my thirst if I’m going to wait.” Two beers later and I’m beginning to resemble the others at the bar. I’m still alert but I feel myself fading into the colors, sounds and people there. It’s then that I realize that my drinking these days consists of an occasional glass of wine or two at dinnertime. Mugs of beer, numerous mugs of beer, are really a thing of the past for me, like when I used to jog two miles every day. But now in Curly’s Bar, this is the present. I’m melting into something I haven’t felt in a long time. Someone has put on “Innocent Man” by Billy Joel on the jukebox. The lyrics easily penetrate my awareness and make me feel sad inside. For myself. For Mike. For everyone here at the bar. I remember Sarah and I decide to call her. When she doesn’t answer, I panic, but then I notice that it’s 11:45 PM. It dawns on me that she’s in bed fast asleep by now. I head for the john. I’m hit by the stench of vomit when I enter, so I take a quick leak and exit as fast as I can. As I reseat myself at the bar, I finish up my beer and begin wondering just what the hell I’m doing out at this time on a weekday evening at a place like Curly’s. But here I am, a shrink and all, not connecting with anything here except Billy Joel’s song. I decide to leave and accept my evening’s losses. Kaput, finis! So what if Mike never resurfaces again? I’ve tried at least, and even gone the extra mile here looking for him. On my way to my car parked some two blocks away off on a side street, I see many shadows between the street lights. Unlike when I came earlier this evening, the street is practically vacant. The crowd back at the bar has remained and, I reason, is the only prevailing night culture around here at this hour. Try to retrace my steps back to my car. I turn off the street onto another, only to find that I have erred. I backtrack to the main street and head down another block and, in the distance, there is my ‘2019 Honda Civic. ‘Thank God!’ I think to myself, sensing that special relief one has after spotting their car in a strange airport parking structure after feeling lost with no apparent way out. Half a block to go and my confidence surges, but I’m distracted by someone leaning with his back against a building by an alley separating two apartment buildings. The figure is still, until it turns to look at me. “Hello, Gary,” the familiar voice says. He walks over to me. He’s very intoxicated, and his dark eyes are blacker than ever under the faint street lights. “Mike, are you okay?” “Sure, Gary, I’m just dandy,” he replies, his face grimacing and noticeably tightening. He grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me toward him until my nose shoves into his chin with the sickening sound of something dislocating. “Mike, I’ve been out looking for you tonight! I …I just left Curly’s and …” Before I can finish what I’m saying, Mike spins me around into the alley and slams my back against the nearest wall. Again, he’s right in my face. I’ve lost some of my breath and can feel my pulse accelerating in my head and neck. “You shouldn’t have let me go, Gary,” he growls through clenched teeth. “I wasn’t ready and you, like a fool, agreed to it! They’ve been at it again, the Taliban are following me everywhere, Gary!” Still gasping to regain my breath, I feel faint. Again, I sense the force Mike has as he spins me 180 degrees back around him and into the wall. This time my left shoulder takes the full impact; I fall to the ground in pain. At this point, I am practically pleading with Mike as I glance up and see his elephantine figure towering above in the semi-darkness of the alley. He pauses for a few moments, looking down at me. The last thing I see is the tortured look on his face, as a thunderbolt strike of his heel hits the side of my face, delivering me through the humid night air to the pavement below. As my eyes close out the glimmer of a nearby streetlight, I think I hear, in the distance somewhere, the word “friend” echoing down the empty street — the only thing I’m aware of now in this state of blindness, fragmented but with fractals of visions attempting to emerge, ones never before imagined in my most bizarre dreams, and for the first time in my life I feel a surge of warmth, like an indescribable fusion with Mike, and every other late-evening straggler on the street that night. Call it late-night reverie or a drink-induced epiphany, the effect is surreal. My thoughts race and distance, then connect into patterns that some would describe as due to a concussive brain injury. I am one with Don Quixote de La Mancha, Joan d’Arc and Vincent Van Gogh all at the same time, a place where logical thought is unimportant and where only things of the heart and soul matter. My initial thought races to consider attempting to follow Mike, a crazy notion of uniting with him to soothe his wounded, traumatized soul and magically extract his pain. I instead opt for limping over to my car with racing thoughts of driving off in Mike’s exit route to see if I can locate him. After ten minutes into an unsuccessful mission to find him, I remember my wife back home alone and probably riveted with scary thoughts about my whereabouts. When I arrive home, Sarah is camped out on the sofa, fast asleep, so I cover her with a light blanket and wash up before jumping into bed. Sleep comes fast despite the pain from Mike’s fierce assault, but dreams soon surround me as I collapse into the cocoon of nighttime. At breakfast the next morning, my thoughts center on Mike and the look of deprivation on his twisted, tortured face, the one I witnessed just before he made ground meat of me the night before. I figured that he must be monastic in his lifestyle, looking for friendship to make up for his history of neglect and his consequent attachment disorder. He had told me that he once attempted to live with Megan, but that she eventually left him for a woman she fell in love with. While Mike has not yet fallen into the abyss of having to live on the street, he subsists in a studio apartment just three blocks from the clinic where I met him several years ago. Through some mysterious alchemy, our relationship has cemented over those years. Now, in Mike’s mind, I represent a betrayal of the highest order: as someone who has rejected the part of his being that, brittle to begin with, has now shattered down due to a complex of personal history, the protracted war in Afghanistan, and now through the perceived rejection of his expressed need for friendship that he has admitted to. And so, with this conundrum, I decided that I will have to think hard and fast about how to reel Mike in to another therapeutic alliance. And the answers that I grasp at all fail me. And I know that I too am damaged goods with possible PTSD to boot. At this point, I realize that optimism is not my strongest suit. The clinic churns over the course of the next few months owing to an influx of patients pouring in with all kinds of problems albeit most not with the severity of Mike’s pathology and neediness. I know most all of the patients in our clinic, having sat through and participated in their weekly outpatient staffing. Then, one day, I spotted Mike seated just across from the receptionist. His hair was slicked back, he was clean-shaven, and his clothes appeared clean. By his side, sat a golden retriever mix. I approached him to chat, not knowing how he would act. Mike said, “When you turned me down, I had to look elsewhere. Meet my new friend, Gary,” he said with a wink. “What a beautiful retriever, Mike,” I said. “Mutt is a better word for him, Gary! I picked him up at an animal shelter not far from my apartment. Megan encouraged me to see if I could find a dog, a nice friendly dog.” “And how are things between you and Megan now?” “Well, she stops by to clean and cook for me every now and then — even does my laundry from time to time. Brings her new friend as well, sometimes.” As Mike brings me up to date on those developments, his eyes remain fixed on mine, but I do not detect an angry stare. He pets his dog who remains seated next to him, and Mike all of a sudden smiles and winks again. “You know, Gary, friendship is really good, and one’s got to find it where one can, right?” I nod . “Absolutely, Mike. We all must do that sooner or later.” Mike looked down in a way that reminded Gary of his childhood visits to the confessional to request forgiveness of sins. “I just wanted to see you one last time to say that I’m sorry for what I did to you the last time we met, Gary,” his eyes still lowered as though he is waiting for some kind of absolution from me. “Well, truth be told, Mike, that incident wasn’t really what I was hoping for at the time.” Mike raises his face and looks directly at me. “I came here today to say that, and to say goodbye. And you know that I am thankful for all that you’ve done for me, for all that you’ve had to tolerate because of our therapeutic relationship.” I pause a moment, and say, “It has been an honor and a privilege to know you, Mike.” Without any further comment or closure, Mike got up, nodded at me, and led his dog out of the clinic without looking back. There have been many quiet nights that Sarah and I have shared on our porch, ones lit only by the moon and the stars. And I have had many thoughts about many things related to Mike’s journey through life. Above all, is whether he has finally found some semblance of peace in his otherwise chaotic life. And I wonder if his relationships with his AA sponsor, his estranged girlfriend and his dog have been enough to ward off his demons, his Afghani ghost, his own inherent complexity as just one among the rest of us flawed souls walking the tightrope of life. Funnily enough, it was Mike who taught me about the value of friendship, the burning need for human connection to protect us from the jackals out there ready to consume us whole. *****

It’s a job that most people don’t even know exists, and a job that no one ever admits to working. It’s a job that requires an unseen workforce around the world to live outside any normal concept of time. It’s a job that demands each worker accept a selfless life working alone for the benefit of others who will never know of their existence. And despite all the requirements and demands of the job, every single person who works the job would tell you, if they could tell you, that they were called upon by something greater than themselves to carry on a tradition whose origins have become as distant as a dying star. Take for instance the longest tenured of these workers, Toshie. She is a woman who, at the exact moment the last ray of sunlight dips beneath the horizon marking the beginning of her shift, has no regrets when she clocks in for the final time after a millennium on the job. In that time, Toshie has become a Grandmaster at her craft. But the only people in the world who acknowledge her existence and accomplishments are the other chosen ones who work alone, emulating methods she perfected from dusk until dawn every day of her long life. Toshie removes the clipboard from the wall next to the timeclock and reads through the orders. Tonight is a light night, with only seven orders listed: a sixty-something man one month removed from his most recent facelift; an adolescent girl who has completed her last acne treatment; a middle-aged woman whose hair has started falling out after her third round of chemo for breast cancer; a pre-teen boy who is playing dress-up with his mother’s red lipstick and red high-heeled shoes; a man who just turned forty and was told by his wife that he is the spitting image of his father; a twenty-something young woman who has painted her eight-month-pregnant belly like a moon; and an elderly woman who has chosen not give a reason. Toshie turns to her workspace and opens the crate that holds seven blank panels. She peels off the protective covering, revealing a perfectly flat black surface that holds something deeper than two dimensions. Before she begins, she takes a moment to admire the unadulterated beauty of the pristine panel that is somehow both opaque and transparent. Like the universe itself, Toshie whispers. Filled with nothing and everything all at once. With a sigh that conveys both sadness and pride for what she is about to do, Toshie lays the flat panel on her workbench and begins to mix the proper powders from the myriad of ancient bottles stacked on sagging shelves all around her, taking her time to count out the precise number of liquid mercury droplets needed to create her medium. When the concoction is just right, Toshie pours it into—not onto—the panel and waits for the face of the sixty-something man to come into being like a time-lapse film of a rose transforming from seed to bloom. Once the image sets, she kisses the man’s reflection and slips it into the slot in the wall above her workbench to be delivered to his mirror. Toshie spends the rest of her shift transforming the remaining six blank panels into reflections. Knowing these will be her last, she pauses to admire each one she completes. She caresses the smooth face of the adolescent girl. She gently strokes the last few wispy strands of hair on the middle-aged woman. She brightens the color of the lipstick and high heels to candy-apple-red on the pre-teen boy. She nods and whispers, Yes, you are, to the forty-year-old man. She cradles the belly of the twenty-something young woman in her wizened hands. When, at last, she finishes the final reflection, Toshie closes her eyes and holds the mirror in front of her. Faces from a lifetime of reflections—young, old, male, female, neutral, fluid, happy, smooth, beautiful, ugly, pitted, scarred, weeping, and too often alone, alone, alone—swirl like innumerable galaxies in the universe of darkness that exists behind her lids. Wiping away tears, she opens her eyes, and for the first time in her long and lonely life, Toshie finds herself. Kip Knott is a writer, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Delaware, Ohio. His work has appeared in Bending Genres, Best Microfiction Anthology, Ghost Parachute, Maudlin House, Milk Candy Review, The Sun, trampset, Vestal Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and The Wigleaf Top 50. His most recent book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press.

The brother sits at the table with his older sister, doing his best to eat as loudly as he can. It’s his way of proving to the world that he exists. His sister looks across the table at him, her eyes narrowed. “Do you really have to eat your pretzels like that?” “Like what?” he asks, not even looking up from his snack. She wrinkles her nose, her mouth twisting. She hates the crinkling of the bag almost as much as the sound of his chewing. “Like a freak,” she replies. He snorts. “At least I don’t eat Cheetos with chopsticks.” “It’s a smart thing to do,” she retorts. “That way, I don’t get cheese dust on my fingers.” “The cheese dust is the best part.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You’re so immature.” “I know you are, but what am I?” he says, pitching his voice up to make it clear that he knows, just as well as she does, that despite what their mother has repeatedly insisted, relying on comebacks that were out of fashion when she was in school isn’t going to save them from getting pushed around. And he does. He does get pushed around. His sister sees it happening sometimes, when the fifth graders leave the cafeteria and the third graders rush in. She knows better than to intervene. The only thing worse than getting bullied is having to be rescued from getting bullied, especially when said rescuer is your sister. She lets out a breath, her shoulders dropping. She remembers the third grade. It was, in all honesty, a rather rough year. Far harder than the second grade. Of that she is certain. Her eyes slide back over to him. He’s placing pieces of his pretzels on the table now. Eight years old and still playing with his food. Maybe, she thinks, she should give him a break. Their mother always says it’s her job, as the older sibling, to make sure her brother’s okay, and though she thinks that’s rather unfair, considering most times, he’s the very reason she isn’t okay, she feels the tiniest bit sorry for him. “Look,” she says, the word twining its way out of her mouth like a sigh. “I think we should make a deal: You try to be nicer to me, and I’ll try to be nicer to you. Okay?” He makes a face. Her face. They look so much alike, it unnerves her. “You probably don’t even know how to be nice,” he mutters. The sister frowns. “Yeah, I do. Janna says I’m super nice.” “Well, Janna’s a butthead.” She drops her jaw. “STOP it. I’m trying to help you.” “Why?” he asks, opening his mouth wide enough to reveal the pretzel mush. “Gross,” she says, pulling her workbook away before he can drool all over it. Janna sometimes tells her she should get a dog, but the sister just says she has one already. As if reading her mind, her pseudo-dog scratches his ear. “Ugh.” She drops her pencil on her workbook, the tip of her lead bouncing against the page and leaving a tiny gray scar. “You’re so disgusting.” “What? My ear is itchy.” She watches, her lip curled, as he resumes eating his pretzels. “You’re not even going to wash your hands?” He’s quiet for a moment, as if mulling this over. “Anyway,” he says, as if they haven’t been in constant conversation this entire time. “Okay. Let’s be nice.” She frowns and says, “Okay,” less because she still feels motivated to be kinder to her brother and more because she has long lost the thread of their discussion. “Okay,” he says again. Then, crumpling the empty snack bag in one hand, he breezes past her, dumps his trash, and makes a beeline for his room. She glances down. He left bits of pretzels all over the table. She opens her mouth to call him back, then lets out a breath instead. Perhaps cleaning up his mess can count as being nice. She takes a look at the pretzels. The way they are arranged. Then she sees it. The way he has painstakingly bitten and organized his pretzel pieces to form the words u suck. Taking a deep breath, she lifts her chin and shouts, “MOM” at the top of her lungs. From his room, the brother snickers. His room is a mess. As is his crumb-covered shirt. Years later, when it’s the sister who needs help, the brother is paralyzed, with no idea what to do. It takes a strong-worded lecture from his girlfriend, the best and bossiest woman he’s ever known, for him to muster up the courage to stop by for a visit. He arrives with a bouquet of daisies he bought on the drive over. When his sister opens the door, he all but lobs the gift bag right at her face. Only once she has caught it, her reflexes fast for someone nursing a broken heart, does he realize that might not have been the best course of action. “Sorry,” he says. “You suck,” she replies. He pulls back, then laughs. “I do, don’t I?” She opens her mouth. Thinks for a moment. Then, nodding, she says, “Yeah. Yeah, you do.” For the next three seconds, the two siblings stand at the door. “Come on in, idiot,” she says at last. “I’ve been waiting for you to show your stupid face.” The siblings have never been good at sweet. They grew up savoring what hurt just a bit. It proves they can still feel something, deep down. And they do. They still feel. He resists just a bit as she guides him inside. Their bones crush together as he hugs her and tells her he never liked Janna anyhow. The emotion on their faces—their same, teary faces—tells a story of the best and saltiest love. Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Kelly Murashige is the author of the award-winning YA novels The Lost Souls of Benzaiten and The Yomigaeri Tunnel, as well as the upcoming adult novel Milkiverse (2027). Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. Though she can be shy, she loves obsessing over books, video games, and strange animals.

A swing on a chain: a Jack and a Jane. See a chain swing is swinging: see Jack pushing, Jane pulling. Feel Jane’s hands on a chain; Jack’s hands are on Jane. Hear Jane’s breath a refrain to Jack huffing in strain. Smell sweat and black rubber: taste salt and rain A swing, a thing, a chain and a Jane, a Jack and a snap! They tumble flat back, buck naked and sore, their bedroom floor. Laughing—a snapped chain: lovers still, Jack and his Jane. T.L. Tomljanovic is a flash fiction writer from Vancouver, Canada. She is a Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction nominee, and a founding member of the Pride Roars. She is also, at times, very silly.

*Content Warning for abuse, sexual coercion, suicidal ideation “Rebecca, any other guy would have beat you by now.” Inhale for 4 seconds. “We should both kill ourselves.” Hold for 4 seconds. “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” Exhale for 6 seconds. “Why are you still upset? I haven't yelled at you in 3 days.” Now onto the next exercise. “Oh, do I have to visit you at the ER? I am going to be busy hanging out with my friend.” Lie on your back comfortably. “Oh, do I have to babysit you again?” Curl your toes tightly into your feet, then release them. “You wouldn't have anything without me.” Point or flex your feet, then let them relax. “You will be fine. Let's continue. Circle it good, now.” Squeeze your thighs together tightly, then let them relax. “I wouldn’t be able to choose between you or Natasha.” Suck in your abdomen, then release the tension and let it fall. “I wasn't yelling; I was just venting.” Squeeze your shoulder blades together, then release them. “Well, you had it coming. You bring it out of me. I had to put you back in line.” Lift and squeeze your shoulders toward your ears, then let them drop. “I AM THE MAN! I SAY WHAT GOES!!! You're just the woman! You have to submit to me!” Make fists and squeeze them toward your shoulders, then let them drop. “You're evil.” Make a fist by curling your fingers into your palm, then relax your fingers. “You're troubled.” Scrunch your facial features to the center of your face, then relax. “I just wish that you weren't disabled. It pisses me off that you are. I get sick of always having to help you.” Squeeze all muscles together, then release all tension. “I've never done anything wrong.” Amazing job! You have completed the exercise! Do this at least once per day for maximum benefit. Healing times vary, from a few months to an eternity.

“Beating the Trojans was easier than planning for this crazy Christmas shopping excursion,” mused Eustis out loud, to his fellow Spartans. The week before, the six in the vehicle had a lot to celebrate. The Spartans of Michigan State University prevailed over the University of Southern California Trojans in the Big Ten Championship. Now three of his teammates from the football team, along with two other athletes from MSU, decided to head down from East Lansing to Detroit to take care of their holiday shopping. Eustis’ girlfriend Nell begged off. “You’ll never get everything for everyone on our list,” she insisted. “Just let me take care of everything online, rather than take a voyage to that huge ‘Mall of the USA.’” But the thrill of the hunt, and the challenge to the athlete, could not be denied to Eustis and the other Spartans. As Eustis drove his Ford Expedition, the hulking lineman “Moose” rode shotgun, swearing at every car that sped by or cut them off. Behind him, women’s basketball captain Deb was shouting out navigation directions. One seat behind Moose sat Quince, MSU’s star defensive back, who had the all-important job as D.J. of the S.U.V., ensuring the latest holiday hits were blasting out of Eustis’ stereo. Squeezed in between them was Tiny, the Spartans’ gymnast and floor exercise champion, studying an online guide to the massive indoor mall shopping. Stuffed in the trunk area was Amp, a freshman MSU running back, engrossed in his Nintendo DS. “What a win last Saturday!” Moose relived the overtime victory to win the conference. “That fake field goal attempt totally fooled the Trojans.” Quince laughed. “If we can beat those guys from USC, a little holiday shopping can’t be that hard, right?” The doors to the Mall of the USA opened before them into a giant Food Court. Pangs of hunger gnawed at Eustis’ belly, the PB&J that Nell made for him not quite quelling his hunger. “Ignore them,” Eustis commanded as eager assistants with trays of free samples speared with toothpicks tried to entice the band of Spartans. He had to pull Deb away from the Sushi rolls and Quince from the pot stickers. At the end of the Food Court, the leader of the journey did a head count. 1…2…3…4…and he made five. But where was Moose? Eustis dashed back inside the Food Court. He saw the hulking lineman sprawled out in a large chair in front of “Lotus Eats,” which seemed to be the epicenter of the servers with the free samples. “Hey Eustis!” Moose cried out. “You gotta try these sausage cheeseballs! They’re all free!” The captain of the Spartans glared at his teammate. “Dude, we have to finish….” “C’mon man,” Moose complained. “Just have a sip of this IPA.” Eustis rolled his eyes. “How many of these have you…” Then he caught sight of all of the solo cups littered around Moose’s massive shoes. “Never mind. See ya later.” Moose raised his beer in a toast just like Dionysus, then belched. Now they were down to five. “Where’s Moose?” Amp asked. Eustis sighed. “He’s not going anywhere. We’re gonna need a forklift to get him out of the Food Court, and a cab to get back to…” “Hey!” Deb burst out. “Where’s Quince?” Eustis’ eagle eyes looked across the mall until he saw a forest-green blur. “There he is!” A giant security guard, who wore an eyepatch, pursued the speedy defensive back. “Stop him!” the mall cop bellowed. “He’s a thief!” Quince’s fellow Spartans rushed over to try and help their friend. Before they could get to him, a few Good Samaritan wannabes blocked the Spartan player, enabling the large officer to tackle him. As the cop hauled their friend to his feet, the large man’s one good eye glared at his quarry. Eustis noted that the guard had a nametag, which read “Virgil.” “I’m taking you in for shoplifting,” the one-eyed mall cop announced. “I didn’t steal nothin'!” Quince declared. “Then why’d you run?” Virgil sneered. “What’s your name?” “Nobody to you!” Other cops showed up and dragged off Eustis’ Spartan teammate. “I can’t believe Quince would do that,” Deb waved her hands wildly. “He probably didn’t,” Eustis observed, pointing at Virgil. “He’s got a University of Michigan watch. It’s probably a revenge thing for us beating them by three touchdowns.” “So now we’re four,” Amp groaned. “What could happen next?” They were about to find out. “So we’ve got a quarter of our list done,” Eustis stated. “As long as we stick with the plan….” “Wait!” Amp called out. “We lost Tiny!” Eustis whirled around. “Did someone nab her?” Deb shook her head and pointed at a store behind them, labeled “Capri’s Chords.” “Chances are she’s stuck in the music store,” the women’s basketball player declared. They found the gymnast in the back of the store. With giant headphones over her ears, Tiny was sporting some Virtual Reality goggles. She didn’t seem to notice Deb tapping her on the shoulder. “Tiny?” Amp called out. There was no response. “Tiny!” Eustis yelled. “Oh, hey guys?” Tiny squealed, finally acknowledging them. “You should check this out. It’s like I’m right there at the concert with my favorite group!” Deb explained. “Tiny’s beloved band is Sy and the Wrens. It’s no use waiting for her…she’ll be rocking out for hours in this multimedia experience.” Reluctantly, the three shoppers left Tiny as she continued to gyrate to some beat. “Well, at least the three of us can accomplish our mission,” Eustis claimed as they wandered through the “Home R Us” department store. “We’ve got half of our stuff taken care of.” “Yeah,” Deb backed him up. Amp didn’t say anything. That was because Amp was no longer there. Deb and Eustis scoured the entire store, finally finding their Spartan teammate in the appliances section. “What are you doing here?” Eustis demanded. Amp merely stared in wonder at the refrigerator. “It’s a Whirlpool.” “It’s a what?” Deb gasped. “It’s a Whirlpool 36-inch with 24.5 cubic feet, standard depth, French doors, fingerprint resistant stainless steel….” “You can’t afford this!” Deb insisted. “It’s almost $2,000.” “And that doesn’t cover delivery,” Eustis added. “I’ll get my parents to send me money,” Amp replied, as if in a trance. “It’s my dream fridge. I don’t even want to leave it now that I found it.” “Forget it,” Deb put her hand on Eustis’ shoulder, leading him away. “He’s gone.” Eustis crossed another item off his list. “We’re most of the way there, Deb,” he noted. “We only have an hour left until they close.” “Ooooh!” Deb shrieked. “They have a Sentimental Safari! Can we go in, Eustis? It’ll be just for a minute. I promise!” “Okay,” Eustis sighed reluctantly. But it was too late. Within moments, the women’s basketball player had an Albino Ball Python draped over her shoulders. “I love him!” she cooed. “He’s so smooth. I’m calling him Syla the Snake.” Eustis could only gape. “You go on without me,” Deb offered. “I’ve got to get acquainted with my new friend here.” Eustis left the Mall of the USA, hefting three big shopping bags alone. At least Quince was released when videocameras confirmed his story, though he had split home via the bus, according to his text. In fact, all five friends messaged their leader noting they would be taking different forms of transportation home except Moose. He sent a message in the group chat that he was at Circe’s BBQ. At least he got everything on his list. It was time to head home to Nell. Unfortunately, she wasn’t answering any of his texts. That had him worried. When he got to their dorm, there was no response to his knock on the door. Where was she? All he could hear was a group of men chanting carols loudly. Curious, he peeked outside. There was Nell, cowering in a corner of the building, surrounded by a semicircle of dandies decked out like extras on the set of “A Christmas Carol” movie, singing, no screaming, the loudest rendition of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” The glee club wannabes all sported a name on their top hats: “The Suitors.” “Eustis!” Nell called out. “Save me!” The Spartan looked around. Though a football player, it would be one against more than a dozen. Then an idea hit him. At the end of the verse about demanding figgy pudding, he took advantage of the momentary pause. “Hey everyone!” Eustis yelled. “Arrow.com is offering half off on electronics until midnight!” Immediately, the carolers abandoned their helpless quarry and ran for their dorms, apartments, and eventually their laptops. Nell sprang forward into her boyfriend’s arms. “Eustis!” she beamed. “You rescued me!” She kissed him, then noticed all of the shopping bags. “And you saved Christmas too!” “Aww…” he blushed. “It was nothing.” She pointed back to her dorm. “Let’s take T-Mach for a walk,” she offered, referring to her Border Collie. “And you can tell me all about your shopping trip.” “Trip?!” Eustis laughed. “It was a total odyssey!” John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school. He wrote for his college paper at Trinity University in San Antonio and at Marquette University. He earned his doctorate at Florida State University, analyzed data in Washington DC, and is now a Professor at LaGrange College. He writes a weekly column for newspapers and magazines (https://muckrack.com/john-tures/articles). He has published a number of short story mysteries and thrillers. His book Branded, which mixes corporations, media and academia in a thriller. was by Huntsville Independent Press late last year (see more about it here: https://www.huntsvilleindependent.com/product-page/branded) and he has another on the way, an election thriller about a third party candidacy titled “Independent Thought.” He thanks family and friends for listening to his stories. His author site is here: https://www.johntures.com/about-the-author/.

we’re walking, we’re walking this graveyard and i’m your conductor and if you read the tombstones here's who must not be named and here's the worst poet in scotland so from this spot you can see from here, the school the castle rather, it’s quite striking rather moving innit, you can see the esplanade erm quidditch pitch see, i'm not a local, really a schoolteacher in civilian life but yes, we’re aware of the author yes, it’s a bad look but please let’s save our comments for the duration let's keep our questions for the conclusion for we have our wands in hand because on this tour there’s magic on every corner— the shops on victoria street the tower and turrets can you hear the pipers busking can you smell the rain on cobblestones mind the crosswalk now, please mind your children, oh ma’am ma’am, your child has turned loose but don’t fret ain’t lost one yet but on second thought— run for it young one, run you can begin again you can start a new life J. R. Wilkerson is a DC-area poet by way of the Ozarks. His scribblins have been featured in Roi Fainéant Press, Voidspace, Memezine, The Broken Spine, with forthcoming publications in The Twin Bill and One Fall Review.

anthem i’ll begin with an admission - that night all those february winters ago with its primal midwest bone chilling wind whipping up a honey of a snowstorm was mostly a blur. you were five days late and showing no signs of your impending arrival, clearly you were just fine where you were, thank you, until midafternoon when you proceeded to inititate operation bodyslam in earnest. by the time your father drag raced us up lake shore drive to the hospital i was so deep in the hellfire they call back labor i could barely string three words together and he turned sheer shakespearean, declared to every medical professional within earshot at the emergency room my name followed immediately by she’ll take an epidural now, and believe me when i tell you he was backlit stage left just right when finally they hooked me up. and i went boneless. then apparently a long phase lapsed where i mostly cooed and slept like some sort of drunken dove past midnight into saturday. so when it was time to descend from my marshmallow cloud to the battlefield i needed to snap out of it and here’s where it got real again, hours of me pushing to the state of limp noodle with no baby to show for it, hours and then signs that your heart rate was falling, and kid, here’s where i swear i felt its pulse, the soft syncopation of it, and i willed your heartbeat, that little song ready to play and confession, i chartered a bargain with the universe that moment, that as long as you lived i’d be perfectly content to be on the sidelines cheering you on, i’d win the olympic medal for wishing you the world, for letting your anthem be the one that mattered most. new moon rules call today indigo/trust a falling leaf/exhaust your enemies/simmer fifteen cherry tomatoes/drink the sky and swallow twilight/slice lemons at dusk/ wink at a puppy/skip rocks in puddles/watch lightning bugs break the dark/blow kisses to raindrops/sketch yesterday in yellow/ take a nap with a daisy/count afternoon clouds/color your dreams lavender/tell a songbird your secrets/paint midnight a whisper/sneak green in the window/ dance with a dandelion/tickle a feather/sing to stars on a rooftop/moon the moon/ whistle to the rhythm of your heart’s blossoming/write a love note to paper Elle Cantwell is a graduate of the MFA in Writing program at the University of San Francisco. Her poems have appeared in Ponder Review, Welter, Roi Fainéant Press, Barrelhouse and Seneca Review, among other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a winner of the Jeff Marks Memorial Poetry Prize. A freelance theatre director and editorial specialist, she lives in Santa Monica, California.

The food court took up most of the ground floor of the office building. Unlike food courts in shopping malls, it featured full-size restaurants with dine-in seating. The restaurants surrounded a common area with tables and chairs. If a group of friends had different tastes on a given day, they could get carry-out from the restaurants and eat together in the common area. Brian Fielden came out of the Indian place with his chicken curry lunch in one of those styrofoam boxes with a hinged lid. Ken Gunderson, with a BBQ sandwich, fries, and coleslaw in front of him, waved at Brian from a table in the middle of the food court. A guy in a gray pinstriped suit sat at the table with Ken, his back to Brian. Ken often joined a lone diner like that. He said he liked to meet new people. Only when he placed his tray on Ken’s table and sat did Brian recognize the other man. The man’s smile turned to a frown when he saw Brian. Neither spoke. Ken, in the middle of making a point to the other man, broke off to say, “General, this is my office mate, Brian. Brian, this is General Mildenhall. General Mildenhall is retired from the Army and works for Marlek.” Ken went on to explain to the General that Brian came to work for the Army as a contractor after retiring from a Department of Defense agency as a Federal employee. After the introductions, Mildenhall turned his attention back to Ken. His face relaxed into a slight smile. “Yeah, but it’s like that all over the world,” Ken went on. “Like Korea, for example. The girls over there want to meet an American to make him their papa-san, so they can marry him and come to the States.” Brian glanced at Mildenhall, who again stopped smiling. The General glanced at Brian and then turned his gaze toward Ken. Before Ken could continue, Mildenhall said, “You seem to be an authority on Korea. I guess you were stationed there?” “I was on a special assignment there for three months when I was in the Air Force.” “Got to town a lot, to the bars and all I take it?” Ken chuckled. “No, I had a wife back in the States already. I stayed on base the whole time.” When Mildenhall and Brian said no more Ken continued talking about his career in the Air Force. Mildenhall only had a salad for lunch. He excused himself after completing his meal, leaving Ken and Brian to finish eating. # At home that night over supper Brian’s wife Laura asked, “How’d it go today?” “One interesting thing. Guess who I had lunch with.” “Jennifer Aniston.” “No. Troy Mildenhall.” “General Mildenhall? Are you kidding me? Why would you eat with that asshole?” He explained about finding Ken sitting at the table with somebody, and found out too late it was Mildenhall. “You should have just walked away. Gone to a different table. That jerk caused you so much worry I can’t imagine how you could sit at the same table with him.” “It would have been awkward not to sit with him. By the time I realized who he was, I was already sitting down. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of Ken.” “Why do you hang out with that little creep Ken anyway? He’s always irritating you with the crap he says.” “I don’t hang out with him. We work in the same office. People go to lunch together, it’s just customary. It kind of worked out funny today, anyway. Ken badmouthed Korean women. He said they try to hook an American to be their papa-san, so they can get married and come to the States.” Laura laughed. “Now that’s funny. What did Mildenhall say?” “Nothing like what you’d expect. He asked Ken a couple of questions about his time in Korea and then dropped it.” “Did you tell Ken that Mildenhall’s wife was Korean?” “No. What would be the point? He’d already said what he said and couldn’t take it back.” She giggled. “No, but you could let him know he made an ass of himself. All your stories make me hate him without ever meeting him.” # A couple of weeks later Brian changed his mind about enlightening Ken on Mildenhall’s wife. He ate lunch at his desk that day, while Ken had gone out with one of the other guys in the office. After returning from lunch Ken came to Brian’s desk. “Did you know General Mildenhall before we met him that time in the food court?” “Yeah. Before I retired he was deputy director at my agency for a couple of years.” “Really? Why didn’t you say anything? I thought you two acted funny toward each other. I could tell something was wrong.” “Yeah, we didn’t get along back then.” Brian disliked talking about that episode but wanted to make clear the reason for his aversion to Mildenhall. “He tried to get me fired.” “Really? What’d you do?” Ken looked amused. “It’s what I didn’t do. He had a pet project, and he wanted to show that it increased efficiency. I was in charge of workforce measurement, and my data didn’t back him up. He pushed me to do some creative accounting to show improvements that weren’t there. I wouldn’t do it, so he tried to get me fired. My boss supported me, and went to the director of the agency, who was Mildenhall’s boss. It all got sorted out.” Ken became serious. “Trying to get you fired seems a little extreme.” “He wanted to show some accomplishment during his assignment at my agency, to help him at the promotion board. It’s a thing senior officers have to do. Later I heard back channel that he blamed me for his not getting promoted. Because he didn’t get promoted he had to retire at the end of his tour at the agency. And he retired with only two stars.” “That explains everything.” “Like what?” “I just had lunch in the food court with Les. I saw Mildenhall coming out of the sushi place and waved him over. He frowned and nodded, so I know he saw me. But he didn’t join us and sat alone at another table. He must be pissed at me for being a friend of yours.” “Maybe.” Brian paused before adding, “You know, Mildenhall’s late wife was Korean.” “Oh, really?” Ken showed no reaction. “So maybe he didn’t like what you said about Korean women.” Ken furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? I didn’t say anything about Korean women.” “Yeah you did. Right as I sat down you talked about Korean women wanting to marry American men so they could come to the States.” “Well, that’s just a fact. And I wasn’t talking about his wife.” “She was a Korean who married an American and immigrated to the States. That’s pretty much who you were talking about.” “I don’t see it that way. I’m sure he must be mad at me for being a friend of yours.” Ken spoke with confidence. “Maybe,” Brian said. He changed the subject rather than engage further with Ken on the subject of the General and his wife. # A few days after Brian told Ken about the General’s wife, the two of them went with Les to the food court. As they were eating, Ken asked Brian in a joking tone, “Have you seen your bro the General lately?” After Brian said no Les asked what that was all about. Ken told the back story. Les said, “Wow, Brian, you forced a General to retire?” “He sure as hell did,” said Ken. “And now the General hates him.” “I don’t know. I heard he thought I was the reason he didn’t get promoted, but I doubt I had any impact. I think he hates Ken more than he hates me.” Les said, “Why?” Brian explained about Ken’s Korea remark, and Mildenhall’s late wife being Korean. Ken said, “I don’t remember saying that about Korean women, but even if I did, why would that make him mad? It’s a well-known fact.” Les looked thoughtful. “I don’t know that it’s well known. I mean, I never thought about it. But it does make sense.” Les’s face brightened. “But getting a general fired—boy, Brian, you must have swung some weight back in the day. No wonder he hates you.” “I didn’t get him fired. Somebody told me Mildenhall felt like I kept him from getting promoted. I don’t know that the absence of one good news story from his last tour would make them turn him down for promotion. But even if he hates me, I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled with what Ken said about Korean women.” Les said, “How do you know that?” “That’s why he didn’t sit with you guys at lunch when Ken waved him over.” “Ken and me? I don’t remember that.” When Ken munched his sandwich without talking, Brian said, “Ken, you told me you saw Mildenhall and waved him over, and he just nodded at you, then sat by himself. Right?” “Yeah, that’s true. But I still think it’s because of you, not anything I said.” The conversation drifted off into other directions. After that lunch Ken never mentioned Mildenhall again, which pleased Brian; and Brian said no more about Ken’s opinion of Korean women, which he assumed pleased Ken. # Brian ran into Mildenhall one final time. They happened to share an elevator when Brian went to a meeting in the building adjacent to the one where he worked. After they entered the elevator on the ground floor, Brian and Mildenhall stood next to each other, staring at the door. Ken’s unwitting slight of the General’s wife still bothered Brian. Turning his head toward Mildenhall, he said, “General, I just want to say, I was disgusted by the comments that guy Ken made when we ate together in the food court. He was out of line, and I don’t agree with anything he said.” Mildenhall stared hard at Brian before saying, “Still, you didn’t have any trouble breaking bread with him, did you?” At that moment the elevator stopped at Mildenhall’s floor. He exited quickly, giving Brian no chance to answer. The scene of his worst confrontation with the General back at his old agency flashed in his mind, the self-righteous tone and the sour face. He never thought about Ken and Mildenhall’s wife again, but the General’s threats stayed fresh in his memory.

Meaningless! Meaningless! and when you search for the meaning of creation a beach umbrella takes flight, a needle is inserted between vertebrae from cowering to exaltation Navy lined the white climb of myrtle Nylon sheathed the sun as gulls circled for broken bread Yellow eyed the rabbit-eaten iris while Riptide took Indigo’s hand Ocean wore her rings inherited from the low open shore Sage bowed to a castle swept from exaltation to cowering and when you search for the meaning of creation a child is born in the hospital, a mother is impaled in the sand Twenty-two Cherry Blossoms on the train to Baltimore I see twenty-two cherry blossom trees a slow Saturday at the airport, six metal pillars where I would wait for her six men to my right where they would wait to wheel passengers in blue chairs I drink her gin and tonic, I spend too much on dinner we talk on how our perceptions of God and my lack of housekeeping caused the break in her rented blue Ford she kisses my cheek having driven me through light-bearing Baltimore I see two petals on the door of the last train out Josh Gaydos (he him) currently resides in Washington, D.C. His work has appeared in Barren Magazine, Roi Faineant Press, DIAGRAM, Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine, and Stone Circle Review. He can be found on Instagram at @jgwrites22.

My father knew how the system worked; how it fed its subjects and ground their bones. He saw himself as a practical philosopher of the cold, hard world. To save me, he taught the choreography of survival: the proper tilt of the chin, the measured depth of a nod. "Refrain from using venomous words," he'd say. "They poison the air where beauty still breathes." He wanted me to move within the invisible lines. I tried to absorb his wisdom, but my spirit wouldn't settle. I stayed fractured, unfinished. He saw weakness where I was forging something else, mistook the quiet work of character for youth and frailty. He explained, love doesn’t depart but its language is made of rules and discipline. Silence itself is a razor-edged blade that can cleave any soul. Beauty still exists, although it stands behind a veil. It offers its hand only to those who approach without demands. In a world that must measure everything, love remains brief, and guarded. J.S. O’Keefe's work spans short stories, essays, and poems. They have been featured in a variety of publications, including AntipodeanSF, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Everyday Fiction, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 50 Word Stories, ScribesMicro, Dissident Voice, 50GT, etc.

Spirals I. II. III.